DREAMS of 18 Read online

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Other Books by Saffron

  Blurb

  Playlists

  Dedication

  She was only 16…

  Minutes shy of 18…

  Part I

  1

  2

  3

  4

  Mr. Edwards

  5

  6

  7

  8

  Mr. Edwards

  9

  10

  11

  Part II

  Mr. Edwards

  12

  13

  Graham

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  Part III

  Graham

  20

  21

  21 & His...

  Free Novella

  My Darling Arrow

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  Medicine Man

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Dreams of 18 © 2019 by Saffron A. Kent

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Cover Art by Najla Qamber Designs

  Cover Model: Justin Clynes

  Editing by Leanne Rabesa

  Proofreading by Virginia Tesi Carey

  October 2019 Edition

  Print ISBN: 9781697810165

  Published in the United States of America

  A War like Ours

  (Dark enemies to lovers romance)

  The Unrequited

  (Sexy student-teacher romance)

  Gods & Monsters

  (Un-conventional coming of age romance)

  Medicine Man

  (Doctor-patient forbidden romance)

  Bad Boy Blues

  (Forbidden bully romance)

  Violet Moore is in love with a man who hates her.

  Well, to be fair, she kinda deserves it.

  On her eighteenth birthday, she got drunk and threw herself at him, causing a huge scandal in their sleepy suburban town.

  Now everyone thinks she’s a slut and he has disappeared. Rumor has it that he’s been living up in the mountains of Colorado, all alone and in isolation.

  But Violet is going to make it right.

  She’s going to find him and bring him back.

  No matter how cruel and mean he is, how much he hurts her with his cold-hearted and abrasive ways, she won’t give up.

  And neither will she think about his tempting lips or his sculpted muscles or his strong hands. The hands that she wants on her body, touching her, feeling her skin…

  The hands that make her want to forget everything and kiss Graham Edwards – Mr. Edwards, actually – again.

  Because you don’t go around kissing your best friend’s dad, do you?

  Even though that’s all you ever dream about.

  Violet’s Kickass Playlist

  Official Graham & Violet’s Playlist

  To all the dreamers, the romantics, the outcasts, and a man named Charles Bukowski…

  And of course, the love of my life: my husband.

  I’m a lover of bad things.

  Or so people say.

  By people, I mean my mom.

  My mom, Victoria Moore, says I love the things that are completely wrong for me. She’s been saying that for as long as I can remember.

  In fact, her favorite story to tell at her famous dinner parties is how when I was little, I’d steal strawberries from the kitchen and hide in my closet.

  One by one, I’d eat them all and within thirty minutes of that, I’d start throwing up. So much so that my nanny would have to take me to the emergency room, because my mom does not look good under hospital lighting. Cue exaggerated laughter from her riveted audience, that reached me from where I’d hide under the stairs.

  After a number of such trips, they found out that I was allergic to a certain component in strawberries, and that was the reason for my nausea.

  So one day my mom sat me down – my dad was away on a business trip or maybe he was getting drunk in his study; I can’t remember that part – and told me that strawberries were wrong for me.

  They are bad, she said. And if I didn’t want to spend my days throwing up, I should stay away from them.

  My answer was, “But I love strawberries, Mommy. And I’m not afraid to throw up because of them. It’s kinda fun.”

  I was like five or something.

  Mom sighed, took a sip of her chardonnay – she loved her alcohol as much as Dad – and looked away from me. To my nanny, she said, “Take her away, please. She’s giving me a headache.”

  I give people headaches. That’s my other thing.

  But that’s not the point.

  The point is: I like bad things.

  I like things that are wrong and harmful and maybe even toxic and deadly. Or almost deadly, like strawberries. Things that no one in their right mind would like.

  Maybe I was born a little weird, a little off-beat.

  Or maybe I’m too evolved to feel fear or caution. I don’t know. All I know is that I want strawberries today. Like seriously. I’ve got a real craving for them.

  I mean, if I can’t have strawberries today, then when can I have them?

  Today’s my day.

  Or at least, it should be. Not that anybody remembers it but still.

  Today’s the day I was born, and well, there’s a story for that, too.

  Sixteen years ago, my mom gave birth to moi at Mount Sinai Hospital on the Upper East Side of New York City.

  She didn’t want to.

  Not even a little bit.

  I wasn’t a part of her plan. Especially not after having my sister, Fiona, only a year before. Plus the fact that my father was out of town when I was conceived made it a little difficult for my mother to explain my existence inside her womb.

  So she tried to get rid of me before I started to grow from fetus to an actual baby.

  She went to a doctor to have her pregnancy terminated, thereby hiding all evidence of her infidelity. It wasn’t as if no one knew of her extra-marital affairs. But before I accidentally got planted inside her, no one could’ve proved it.

  Anyway, the doctor said that it was kind of not possible because she was too far along. So she had to keep me and less than nine months later, I was born.

  Violet May Moore.

  The living proof of my mother’s exploits.

  How do I know all this? Because my mom told me once.

  She doesn’t know that I know. She was totally wasted and in a very bad mood because she’d gotten a call from my school that I was flunking out of biology.

  Again, that’s not the point. My illegitimacy and the questionable circumstances surrounding my birth, nor that my own mother tried to kill me before I was born.

  The point is that I want strawberries for my birthday and I know if I eat even one, I’m likely to spend my day throwing up my organs.

  The question is: do I wanna commit to that? Do I want that kind of pain on the day that I was born?

  I’m lounging in my bed and listening to a song about Brandy. She’s a fine girl who serves whiskey and wine to all the lonely sailors. Apparently, she’d make a very good wife.
>
  I chuckle to myself.

  It’s by Looking Glass, a pop/rock band from the early seventies.

  I’m a lover of vintage music. Yet another thing of mine.

  Wearing giant headphones, I’m nodding my head to the beat when my door bursts open. I don’t even have the time to squeak with shock before a flash of pink and blonde streaks across my room and drops down in front of my window.

  It’s my sister, Fiona.

  I tear the headphones off and jackknife into a sitting position. “What the…”

  She’s grabbing my windowsill and practically hanging out of the window, chanting, “Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod.”

  I spring out of my bed in fright. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “Can you please not use that language?” she says, without taking her eyes away from whatever she’s looking at.

  I raise my eyebrows at her. “Is there a reason you’re being so nice to me today?”

  “I’m always nice.”

  “Not to me, you’re not.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Can you shut up? I’m trying to concentrate.”

  I chuckle. “Besides, Mom’s not here so you can drop the good girl act. What the fuck are you doing scaring me like that?”

  “First, it’s not an act. You just don’t get it because your mind’s always in the gutter. And second, don’t you know what day it is today?”

  At this, my heart starts beating erratically. Hope can do that to you. It can give you arrythmia.

  Honestly, I’m not a fan of hope.

  Especially when the giver of that hope is a member of my family. When it comes to my family, it’s always better to expect the worst.

  I narrow my eyes at her suspiciously. “I think I know.”

  “So you should also know what I’m doing here.”

  Okay, so I’m just gonna go ahead and think it: Is she here to wish me a happy birthday?

  Because if she is, then it’s unprecedented.

  It’s never happened before.

  Last year on my birthday, I stole Mom’s choice of poison, chardonnay, and gave myself the worst hangover in the history of mankind.

  Which is okay. I mean, I deserved it for drinking that stuff like water, sitting up on the roof, singing happy birthday to myself and watching the moon. I would’ve gotten away with it too, if not for my lovely older sister, Fiona.

  She saw me lurking around the house with the biggest pair of sunglasses, flinching at every loud sound, and immediately ratted me out to Mom.

  When I told them it was my birthday the day before and I was just trying to have some fun, Mom’s response was to avoid my eyes and plead a headache, while Fiona said, “Oh, I thought your birthday was in December. That’s weird.”

  And then she walked away like I hadn’t spoken at all.

  So really, I should know better than to hope.

  But what if?

  What if Fiona remembers my birthday this year? I know Mom and Dad don’t. They’re not even home. Mom’s at the country club and Dad’s out of town.

  However, it looks like I’m wrong about the birthday thing, and a sucker. Because Fiona hasn’t looked away from the window ever since she came crashing through the door. Her eyes are glued to whatever is happening out there.

  And there are things happening out there, for sure.

  Now that my headphones are off, I can hear them – men talking, thuds of heavy things being dropped on the ground, a truck rolling in maybe.

  Pushing my disappointment aside – because hello, this is my family, I really should know better – I walk to Fiona. I retrieve a lollipop from the pocket of my shorts and unwrap it, sticking it in my mouth.

  Lollipops are another thing of mine.

  Giving it a long suck, I ask, “What the hell is happening out there?”

  The window in my bedroom overlooks the house next to us. It’s been empty for the past couple of months because our neighbors moved away to go live on the west coast.

  But it looks like someone’s moving in today.

  Twirling my lollipop on my tongue, I notice the front yard is overrun by boxes and random pieces of furniture. There’s a couple of moving trucks parked out front. And there are people, lots of them. Moving guys from the looks of it.

  They are all dressed in navy blue overalls with what’s probably their company logo scribbled on their front pocket. A coffee table, a lamp, the thin rectangular box of a TV are emerging from the truck one by one and being carried to the house.

  “Why are we spying on these people?” I ask Fiona.

  “We’re not spying. We’re observing.”

  “Okay,” I accept as I watch a few guys haul in a black leather couch. “Well, what are we observing?”

  “Don’t you ever listen to Mom?”

  “Not particularly.”

  I hear Fiona sigh before she launches into a reply.

  I would’ve listened to it, I promise. I’m not as horrible a listener as my sister thinks me to be. But as I look around, my gaze hooks onto something.

  Or rather someone.

  A man.

  It’s not my fault that my eyes won’t move from him. Not really.

  Because he sticks out. For more reasons than one, actually.

  Firstly, he’s the only one who isn’t in blue overalls. He has a black and white plaid shirt on with a pair of black jeans and the biggest boots that I’ve ever seen. I think those boots are used for hiking.

  I think he’s just come from hiking, what with how worn and mud-streaked they are, making him look tough and manly.

  With my lollipop stuck between my teeth and the side of my mouth, I look at his face and decide that I was wrong.

  It isn’t the streaks of dirt on his hiking boots that make him look masculine, it’s his dark stubble.

  Actually, can you even call it stubble if it’s thick enough to bury your fingers in? A beard, then. Or the beginnings of one.

  It covers his jaw, which is angular and square, broad even. He reaches up and scratches it, drawing my attention to his long fingers and his exposed forearm dusted with dark hair and the winding ridge of a vein.

  Bones and muscles, that’s what comes to mind when I see him do that, scratch his almost-beard, I mean. And strength.

  The kind that I’ve never encountered before.

  I take him in as a whole: his dark messy hair, his wide stance, his squinting-against-the-sun eyes.

  Yeah, strength. And masculine beauty.

  He can’t be from around here. It’s impossible.

  We live in suburban Connecticut where men wear polo t-shirts, belong to the Yale Alumni Network and play golf in Italian loafers.

  I’d shift my gaze and try to discern the logo of the moving company on the vans so I can figure out where he’s from, but I just can’t look away from him.

  In fact, I track his movements.

  His steps are long and sure as he comes to the rescue of a couple of moving men. They seem to be flagging under the weight of a giant coffee table. As soon as he lends a hand and grabs one end of it, the men stabilize. Their tense frames relax, and they resume moving toward the house.

  Through it all, I notice that he isn’t even breathing hard. There’s hardly any strain on his body whatsoever, except maybe in his biceps. They swell up under his shirt, stretching the soft fabric.

  I don’t know why I think his shirt might feel soft to touch but I do. Maybe because everything else about him is so rough and coarse.

  Something I know that my fingers have never encountered before.

  I watch their progression across the yard, up the stairs, through the porch and into the house via the front door. Even though I knew he was going to disappear, I still feel a tiny bit shocked when he does. Like I just woke up from sleep and awareness is slowly seeping in.

  My lollipop is stuck to the inside of my cheek and I tongue it free. My knees are digging into the hardwood floor and up u
ntil this second, I hardly felt it. Now, I shift to relieve the pressure on them.

  But mostly, it’s the awareness in my skin.

  It’s hot and flushed. And red.

  I can see the goosebumps on my wrists, the hairs standing taut and my flesh colored scarlet. It’s weird that my hands, clutching the windowsill like Fiona, are blushing, along with the rest of my body.

  But they are.

  Anyway, I don’t have time to think about the whys and hows of it because a few moments later, he comes walking out the door.

  He bounds down the front stairs, his thighs strong and powerful. I almost hear the thuds of his boots on the ground. He’s stopped by a few moving guys, who reach up to his broad, thick shoulders.

  As I watch them all talking, I realize that he might be the tallest man I’ve ever seen. Tallest man of all. Tallest man there ever was.

  In fact, looking at him right now, at how tall and broad he is, I think that maybe I should see more people.

  Maybe I should be more worldly. I should get out more and notice things around me, instead of keeping my nose stuck in Charles Bukowski and his wisdom, and my journals. Instead of keeping my face almost hidden behind my large headphones and my dull blonde hair that mostly just appears brown with slashes of gold in it.

  For some reason, this man makes me feel younger than my sixteen years.

  “Oh my God, he’s hot,” says Fiona.

  It feels like she’s talking after ages, although I know it’s not true. While she was going on and on about something that I should’ve known already, I was watching this man.

  But I do hear her this time. Probably because I’ve been thinking the same thing.

  He is hot. And sexy and strong and commanding and just… capable of all the things.

  “Yeah, he’s hot,” I breathe out, watching him run his fingers through his dark hair.

  “I can’t believe he’s moving in next door,” Fiona says in the same whispery tone as me.

  “He is?”

  My voice is squeaky and high. Flushed just like my body.